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A ROSE A rose became a mother, on that spring day I was born. Though I was just an infant, still, I was her first thorn. Soon followed by five more, changing diapers, wiping noses. Still, while raising her six kids, she found time to tend her roses. A rose became a queen, tending thorns and flowers like no other. A queen to live in several hearts, to raise her roses and just be mother. Her rose garden blossomed bright, petals red in the morning dew. She raised six kids and many roses, tending each, as each one grew. One summer at dawn's breaking, her roses cried out in vain. As petals fell to bare the stems, leaving thorns to cry in pain. No one left to tend her garden. God had plucked a rose away. Leaving many thorn-pierced hearts. For the queen arose today. In Heaven's garden there are many roses, tended by an Angel every morn. Someday she'll bring God to her garden, and show Him, her first thorn. |
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